


Chashm-e-Baddoor

by kashinoha



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Canon-Typical Gore, Eldritch, Georgian Era shenanigans, Historical Figures, Humor, LonelyEyes, Sickfic, Spoilers, death once had a near Gertrude experience, elias gets his comeuppance, even elias can't sneeze with his eyes open, mentions of eye trauma, peter doesn't treat elias like a big boy man, robert smirke REALLY likes balance, sometimes you gotta write the fic you want to see in the world
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-30
Updated: 2020-05-09
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:15:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23917396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kashinoha/pseuds/kashinoha
Summary: Wherein Jonah Magnus gets acquainted with defeat at the hands of his associates. Repeatedly.
Comments: 37
Kudos: 78





	1. Gertrude Robinson

**_Chashm-e-Baddoor_ **

All characters © Rusty Quill

While not enough to make him set down his pen entirely, the request did make Elias pause. “I beg your pardon?”

“Sick leave,” Gertrude repeated. “For today and tomorrow. I assume I have some piled up.”

Elias narrowed his eyes. “You’ve never taken sick leave before.”

Indeed, the mere notion was absurd. An impossibility, like salty ice cubes in your drink. Gertrude seemed to debate this. “Wouldn’t want to infect the rest of the staff, I think,” she said.

None of them pointed out that she worked alone in an office, only occasionally requesting the help of her fresh-faced assistants. That, however, was beside the point.

Elias blinked, no doubt taken aback. It was almost refreshing, in a way, to see him wear such an expression. “And you’re…sure about this,” he said.

Gertrude met his gaze squarely, challenging. “I believe I feel a cold coming on,” she answered. “Best to take the rest of the day off and nip this in the bud before it becomes a problem. These bones aren’t what they used to be.”

“I…see,” said Elias, finally. He sighed. “Very well, Gertrude. Be sure to note it in your time card, and take care.”

Gertrude pursed her lips, nodded, and took her leave. She could only hope that her request seemed suspicious enough. Elias was a tricky one, but the tricky ones were often the most predictable. Thinking of him brought to mind a Chinese finger trap. To win, one had to go further in to get out, the opposite of a direct approach.

Luckily Gertrude Robinson had always been skilled at playing things the way they were made. 

The filing clerk must have had _something_ remarkable about him, must have been Marked in some way, but for the life of her Gertrude could not fathom what or how. Regardless, James— _Jonah_ must have seen some kind of potential in the lad, or he would have chosen differently for his next…vessel.

Oh, yes. Later, Gertrude would confess to piecing it all together “shortly after,” but in reality she had figured _that_ little ditty out approximately three days after the change in management (which, coincidentally, was around the time things in the archives began to get misfiled or lost. Any ocular imagery had also seemed to vanish from her office, including the nazar Gertrude kept on the back wall). 

Elias might suspect that she knew, but if he did, they did not discuss it. Frankly, Gertrude was more surprised that no one else in an _investigative institute_ had caught on. It did not take a genius to spot the same, meticulous parting of the hair, hear the same falling cadence of their commands that trailed off into almost a whisper. The same quiet chuckle, like the glint of a spider’s web in the light of early morning. The same unconscious smoothing of their ties when standing up. The same wry way they smiled when a new statement came in, the twisting of their lips, the single raised eyebrow when something did not go as anticipated. People at the Institute remarked on how the new Head just seemed to _know_ what to do, how it felt so familiar, like he had been doing this since he was born, chalking up his uncanny likeliness to James as Rookie Imitation. Gertrude almost laughed at that.

All one had to do was look a little closer, and they would see that James and Elias had the _exact same eyes._ And no, Gertrude did not mean that in the metaphorical sense.

It was about a month into his new role when Elias came to her with the request that she visit a back-end publishing firm in Manchester. Editors who specialized in eighteenth and nineteenth century publications. Innocuous enough, if it had not been for their sudden, bizarre partnership with Polaroid’s UK branch that resulted in a mass production of button-cams and the subsequent slew of privacy complaints. Elias explained to Gertrude, with no little amount of fascination, that the firm claimed to have found a lost publication of Franz Anton Mesmer and were amassing what looked to be their own version of the Watcher’s Crown.

To be fair, it was probably Gertrude’s own fault for the provocation. “I see,” she said, “and you are certain you want me to disrupt this one?”

Elias’ head turned sharply at this, dark eyes boring into hers like the twisting dial on a safe. It was the first time Gertrude had so explicitly alluded to his feeding the Eye.

“Having others privy to that power would be, ah, unfortunate,” he told her. “Oh, and people would die, probably. So yes. Unless—“he tilted his head to the side—“Unless you know something I don’t, Gertrude?”

Gertrude let out a dry chuckle. “Heaven forbid,” she said. “I just thought you would want to see how it plays out. Gather inventory, like ah _, James_ did with that Akashic Records cult in ’87.”

“Mm,” Elias agreed, still giving her an unreadable stare. “Well, I _am_ rather skilled at…acquiring insight. If you don’t go I suppose I could _find out_ easily enough.” He tapped his chin with a finger. “Imagine the things I’d see.”

Anyone else under Elias’ scrutiny would be paling, squirming at the warning that lay under the sheerest of slips. Perhaps Elias thought he was being intimidating. Gertrude had dealt with intimidating before. 

“Go right ahead, Elias,” she said smoothly. James had never Looked. Had never needed to, or cared to. _Elias_ was hardly different. The only change was Gertrude’s plans. While she and the Institute once shared a common goal, Gertrude knew better now. 

Elias would only threaten her with Looking if he was unsure. Gertrude sat on this thought with a twinkling of smugness. He might try to have a peep, and that was fine by her. She would simply have to make the experience worth his while. Easy enough.

The next morning before going into work, Gertrude got out her yellow pages and found who she was looking for. Not her usual go-to, but someone she could gently Compel without any suspicions being raised. Requesting sick leave from Elias had gone swimmingly, and that afternoon found Gertrude seated primly in a spongy, reclining chair before a bespectacled man in a coat. His name tag read _Dr. Samuel Baines, OD._

“And what brings you in today, Ms. Robinson?” Doctor Baines asked.

“Hello Doctor,” Gertrude said, warm. “Just a general checkup, if you don’t mind.” The typical doctor-patient rigmarole continued for a minute further, until Baines made to fetch the phoropter. Gertrude stopped him with a finger.

“If you could humor me first, Doctor Baines—” she pulled out a yellow notepad and clicky pen—“I’m in the process of writing a novel, and am doing some research on the long-term results of acute ocular trauma,” she began.

“Oh! Erm, generally we schedule informative interviews in advance, and for…students, usually,” Baines exclaimed, adjusting the wire frames of his glasses and looking thrown. “And I thought you worked in records?”

Gertrude’s smile showed a little more teeth. “A woman can do both, can she not? I am sure you'll make an exception for little old me,” she said. At that moment, the lights of the surgical lamp in the examining room brightened ever so slightly.

“I—I don’t think, it’s not really,” Baines stammered, and Gertrude Pushed again, watching the sweat bead on his brow. A hazy awareness in the benthos of her mind told Gertrude that back at the Institute, in his office with that too-loud pendulum clock, Elias was suddenly sitting up straighter in his chair. The ensuing tingle, unpleasant in the way that pins and needles tended to be, told her that, for the first time, Elias—Jonah—was properly Looking into her.

Excellent.

“If it’s quick, I, ah, I guess I could answer a few questions,” said Baines, the upward inflection of his voice the only indication that he was surprised at his own acquiescence.

Gertrude ignored the tingle, the mild roil of her stomach at Compelling, and smiled again. “Thank you, Doctor. Now, at the risk of sounding rather gruesome, I would appreciate it if you could brief me on some of the worst ways to damage an eye. The gristlier the better, if you please.”

Doctor Baines cleared his throat. “Right,” he said, “I can’t say I’ve been asked this too often, so, ah, I’m not quite sure where to begin…”

“What experiences can you most vividly recall in your career?” Gertrude prompted. “Surely, with how long you’ve been in practice, I’ve no doubt you have seen some memorable things.”

“Well…I…suppose there was one time a patient came in with a horrid case of corneal lacerations due to metal shards,” Baines started. When he saw the rapt, almost gleeful attention Gertrude was giving him, he tentatively launched into a tale of a construction accident in the eighties.

At one point, Gertrude interrupted, “Might you have a picture to show me?”

“In my file cabinet, yes, but, erm, are you…sure you are alright with this, Ms. Robinson?”

Gertrude clicked her pen. “I can assure you, Doctor, my stomach is quite strong,” she said. “Let’s have it, then.”

Before long the optometrist found himself regaling this slight, aging woman in front of him with the dark side of eyecare: retinal detachment, post-traumatic endophtalmitis , vitreous hemorrhaging, conjunctival blanching, proptosis. The list went on.

Gertrude listened, hmmed and nodded and pushed down her own mild revulsion (something she had ample practice with). She jotted down notes here and there, asking questions when she thought it appropriate to elicit more detail ( _Really? With a sewing needle? And that can cause a ruptured globe? How severe is the hyphema? I had no idea you could develop fungus in your eye. My, you learn new things every day!_ )

At another point, Gertrude tilted her head, asked, “And how exactly does that happen?”

“Well, it’s difficult to explain without seeing it.” Baines gave a sheepish chuckle and ran a hand over his balding patch, “I actually have a video on—"

“Fabulous.”

Baines gaped at Gertrude. He had heard things about the Magnus Institute, of course, but seeing just how unsettling the people working there were firsthand was something different altogether.

Vaguely, he hoped that all their employees had excellent eyes and would not require checkups for a very, very long time.

Gertrude returned to the Institute the following morning and let herself into Elias’ office with a prim double knock. She reveled in the sight of her boss hunched over a publication of Rudolph Tischner, pale and wan like he might be sick at any given moment.

He straightened up as Gertrude cleared her throat. “Ah, Gertrude,” he said, his usual propriety somewhat strained. “Feeling better, I take it?” It was a pretense, and they both knew it. The corner of Gertrude's lip quirked up. Seeing her smile tended to make most people uncomfortable to varying degrees, and Gertrude was delighted to see it had a similar effect on Elias. 

“Quite,” she replied. “Though I must say, you look a bit peaky, Elias. Perhaps you ate something you wish you hadn’t.” She phrased it like a question, baiting, hearing that satisfying metaphorical click as her fingers slid out of the Chinese finger trap.

Elias made an effort not to grimace, accepting rare defeat as the firm line of his shoulders softened. “Point made,” he said.

“Good,” Gertrude exclaimed. “I’m glad we understand each other then.”

Elias swallowed thickly. Despite his claims of being far from a squeamish man, it is suffice to say he has not Looked into Gertrude since.

_End._


	2. Sir Robert Smirke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Very Serious Chapter in which a younger Smirke and Mordechai get Jonah stoned and scare the living daylights out of him with some moths and a fiddle--sorry not sorry.

_2 November, 1823_

_My Dearest Jonah,_

_I hope this letter finds you well. First, let me offer my sincerest apologies. It was not our intention to send you into such a swivet; only to bring some levity to our research, which even you cannot disagree has taken a somewhat morbid turn these past few months. Mordechai and I could not help but worry at your fascination with the newly discovered Entity. I know you are disinclined to speak to either of us presently, which is why I have sent this letter to you explaining myself and my actions on Hallows’ Eve._

_You see, Jonah, man has always been acutely aware of his own mortality. While Death is hardly a new concept, it is certainly becoming quite popular in today’s_ ton _and can allow some measure of allure. Yours, however, proved disproportionate to a concerning degree. Perhaps it was your uncle succumbing to ague in August. Perhaps it was the realization that you are inching closer to your fourth decade, the mature age of man. Whatever the reason, you have seemed less than agreeable to our ephemeral nature on this planet, the extent to which has been deeply disturbing._

_I will not place the blame on Mordechai. Though it was initially his conception, I could have easily refused aiding him in such an endeavor. No; it proved your own rapt obsession and desire to toy with this patron that capitulated me. Never have we seen your countenance so clinquant with mischief, and what we later realised as paranoia. That desire needed to be coffined and put to rest (excuse the pun). We have witnessed a certain Siren in knowledge, but remember that fear is in the eyes of the beholder, Jonah. And though there is little doubt in our minds that you feared the End, you needed a healthy doling of fright to dissuade you from provoking—in my personal opinion—the most dangerous of the Entities._

_That being said, I do hope you can forgive both Mordechai and myself. Understand that it was out of solely altruistic intent for your welfare, along with the spirits of the Hallows wishing us to have a bit of sport. Pursuing something so macabre as the Entities needs fun and merriment to balance them out, or I fear one may go mad._

_You are a smart man, Jonah, which made our job all the more harrowing. Our first task was to divest you of this sharp wit. I must commend the Moroccan gentleman for the caliber of his product, lest it be rude of me to damn the souls who provided us with what we needed. Quality hashish is more perilous than you think to come by, especially for one as known in society as myself. Both Mordechai and I correctly assumed you had never experimented with the stuff (you tend to be rather uptight about these matters, Jonah), and therefore would not be able to differ it from a presumed new flavour of tobacco. We also provided you with ample sherry wine at dinner._

_The ensuing results were better than we could have ever dreamed. Not only did you relieve my pantry of roast lamb and fritters, but for you hashish appeared to distort your perceptions far more than we had anticipated. At one point I do believe you referred to Mordechai’s latest courtship as being “swived in the arse by a doxie with no bubbies.” You will forgive me for laughing then. It was a nonce occasion to hear you use such colourful language, my friend._

_Now that you had been properly blitzed and were susceptible to a variety of_ trompe l’oeils, _it came to the next stage of our proceedings: the Acherontiae. You have formerly expressed an intense distaste for the moths, in particular_ A. atropos, _so we only thought it prudent to include them in our scheme. In your stupor we managed to convince you that the moths came to persons marked by the End and feasted on their live flesh. What cozeners we were! Had you been about your wits, Jonah, I am sure you would have been quite skeptical._

 _(On a side note, you may recall the Greek word_ psychopompós. _I have mentioned the notion before, of escorts who shepherd the souls of the freshly dead to the afterlife. Mordechai supposes this is because we get lost along the way. If there is a way at all. These beings are said to typically adopt the forms of various birds or dogs, however I decided to add_ Acherontia atropos _to this list for your pleasure.)_

 _You know those dank Scottish nights as well as I, and the weather on Hallowe’en could not have been more fortuitous. The moon was a sick, faded tilleul-yellow behind a wafture of clouds. The ground was striated with shadows and patches of moonlight made soft and lambent by a light drizzle. All in all, an atmosphere eerie enough for_ my _trepidation to rear anew as a…mostly sober gentleman. We had borrowed a fiddle the previous morn from a swarthy-looking fellow on Cobden Road for a handful of banknotes. My violin playing is palpably inadequate, though I believe it enhanced the intended dramatic effect._

 _It was likely that despite your state, you would attempt to get some final readings in at the Institute before retiring, as was your wont. Our assumptions proved correct. Mordechai observed your faint Argand lamp burning in the window shortly after our dispersal from dinner._ _In the days leading up to the Eve, Mordechai had taken it upon himself to procure the moths. I do not want nor care to know how the man did so. You will recall the incident with the cattle. I swear, Jonah, I sometimes think Mr Lukas prefers the company of such creatures to those of people._

_Meanwhile, I had discovered a truly remarkable technique: by applying excess pressure to the strings with the bow, the violin generates a kind of scratchy, groaning sound; one that would no doubt have dear Mozart reaching a state of apoplexy. The result was most grotesque._

_In your languor you did not take note of Mordechai following you back to the Institute, which worked in our favour. He let me in through the cellar roughly a quarter-hour after you had ensconced yourself in your study. Following a quiet tip-toe to the drawing room, I began scratching at the fiddle, increasing both the volume and frequency over irregular intervals to gain your attention. Mordechai released a pair of moths from the cage he was keeping them in (merely for fun, I take it), saving the rest for when you would eventually come investigate with a light._

_Having a fusillade of over twoscore swarming moths assail you, scared by a sudden, bursting shriek of a fiddle, would have surprized anyone regardless if they were learned on the topic of psychopomps or not. Their attraction to a light source, the only one being yours at the time, meant that you were positively bombarded, Jonah! Then, well, I believe you mostly remember what transpired. As do your neighbors. Tell me, did you truly believe the End had come for you, a healthy man of five and thirty with no malaise or outstanding debt?_

_Once more, we take full responsibility for this practical joke, and for the extent to which it panicked you. Please know that Mordechai and I are deeply contrite, and sympathize with your ensuing head-ache._

_Although hardly eleemosynary on our parts, I shan’t pretend all this was not for your own good, Jonah. Perhaps you will adopt a healthier approach to this particular patron and research it more impartially henceforward. Or perhaps you shall forget the experience entirely and remain cross with us for some time. Understandable. However, I cannot say I exactly regret the results of our actions. I believe it was necessary to tip the scales. Stymie your obsession with the End with a dose of fear. I pray this experience will detach you from its purulent clutches and allow you to study this patron without getting absorbed like so many others before you. If the price paid is your anger, then so be it._

_I leave for London to-morrow, as my obligations to the Royal Academy prove timely as ever. My sojourn in Edinburgh has been nothing short of remarkable, as it is so seldom that the three of us convene in person. I would hate for us to part on sour terms. Efforts to fumigate your premises will begin shortly, at my own behest, so rest assured that_ A. atropos _shall be expunged from your memory. Both Mordechai and I await your reply, and hope you come at six to-night for a splendid final dinner. Minus the fritters, naturally._

_PS. Please send Mordechai your measurements at your earliest convenience, as I believe we owe you a new pair of trousers._

_Yours truly,_

**_Sir Robert Smirke_ **


	3. Peter Lukas/The Eye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Eye has some weird side-effects if you abuse its patronage. Peter finds them rather entertaining.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place during the first half of season 4.

All characters © Rusty Quill

Peter took one look at Elias and declared, “You’ve been Looking.”

Elias was never one to be startled by Peter’s sudden manifestations, so when the latter materialized outside his cell with no warning but a cool breath and an odd echo, Elias simply sat up and crossed his legs. His voice, cracked and slightly whittled around the edges, betrayed his current predicament more than the shadows under his eyes, the minute beads of sweat at his temple, or the prickling of stubble along his sharp jawline when he replied, low and clipped, “What gave it away.”

“Besides the fact that you're a sight for sore eyes?” said Peter, making the pun deliberate. “Come Elias, you're almost as pale as me. And that’s saying something.”

Elias lacked the energy to properly add a biting comment, so he contended with a glare. “Quite,” he replied.

“You know this happens when you overdo it, especially away from the Institute,” Peter chided. “Beholding Withdrawal’s certainly done a number on you.”

“I’m not in the mood, Peter.”

“No,” Peter agreed, “you're cranky. But I can’t say this isn’t a rare find. The great Elias Bouchard, imprisoned in chains, and riddled with a...what _is_ it you have, anyway?”

“Nothing but a temporary inconvenience,” Elias sighed, and pinched the bridge of his nose between two fingers. “Though your mock sympathy is charming, as usual.”

Peter placed a hand to his chest. “You wound me, Elias,” he lamented, which earned him a quiet scoff.

“Alas, only figuratively. Are you here to claim the last of my dignity?”

“Don’t be so dramatic, Elias. I couldn’t help but investigate what’s gotten your Archivist in such spirits.” Peter touched his lip. “Something about ‘karma being a bitch’, and all that. Wanted to see if it was fake news.”

That would also explain the tape recorder he found under his pillow this morning. Elias rolled his eyes, some of the fight leaving him. “Well, I am happy I could give Jon some amusement,” he replied. “He has been through a lot.” 

“Hm,” Peter nodded. “You, on the other hand, don’t seem to be suffering too terribly.” He raised an eyebrow. “Unless Corruption has some influence here?”

At this Elias managed a dry smirk. “Not every cold season belongs to Them,” he replied, procuring a small handkerchief from his pocket and dabbing lightly under the tip of his nose. Even in prison scrubs, he retained a crisp air of aristocracy. Though when he glanced up at Peter, his smirk fell to be replaced with a glower.

“Take a picture, Peter; I'm sure it will last longer.”

Peter chuckled. “And spoil my fun?” He peered at Elias. “I want to see one of your infamous sneezing fits. They happen so rarely.”

“Are you that bored in your void that something like this will sate your uneventful and frankly pathetic existence?” Elias asked with narrowed eyes, the usual playfulness in his tone absent. Entities, he was tired.

“Now, now, no need to get snippy,” replied Peter, airily. “You can count on one hand the number of people privy to seeing you lose your composure. I’d like to add a finger.”

Elias grimaced. “I don’t suppose you have an actual _purpose_ for your visit, other than to annoy me,” he mused, rubbing the side of his temple. His chains gave a musical clink as he did so. On a normal day Elias could tune out the general, buzzing _wrongness_ of Peter, of any avatar, without a second's thought. Today, the dimensional disparity was just enough to make his head throb.

Peter leaned against the cell doors, his long coat billowing and swishing around his calves. The sound echoed in a way that was not quite acoustically possible for the space. “How’s your Seeing, with, you know…?” he gestured to his face in lieu of an answer. 

“Not the best,” Elias grit out. “This body is still mostly human. Which is more than I can say for yours, Peter.”

“And that’s why I’m here,” Peter replied, letting Elias’ insult bounce off him. Or fade through him, which would be a more appropriate metaphor. “Suppose I should update you on the Institute and all its melodrama, since you’re indisposed. I assume it’s rather interesting.” 

This seemed to pacify Elias, and he settled back onto his cot. He pooled the chains over his legs like some untimely blanket. “You have no idea,” he said.

Peter took that as his cue to launch into a cheery debrief on the State of Things. On the surface, their bet seemed to be favoring Peter. He rambled on about how _well_ Martin was doing, how he was taking to the Lonely like a natural, and Elias thought about warning Peter not to count his chickens before they hatched.

Instead, he asked, “How is it you manage to sound like a reprimanding schoolteacher whilst you talk about the end of the world?”

“Since I’m assuming you already know most of this?” Peter answered with another question. “Also you're forgetting to blink again. It's not good for you.”

Elias simply coughed and waved a hand indicating that Peter should get on with it. If Peter wanted to use catching up as a weak excuse to see Elias at less than his best, then there wasn’t much Elias could exactly do about it. Peter only knew about the Eye's more _interesting_ side-effects because of an unfortunate incident in '98 involving an attempted break-in and failed Slaughter Ritual. Elias had had to keep extended Watch on several parties simultaneously over the course of a couple days, as well as inflict sufficient mental trauma on everyone present. It had been quite draining, in the end, and the aftermath had _not_ been flattering.

Peter gave the prison security cameras a brief once-over, not unduly surprised that no guards had come to check on them. He doubted the cameras were working right in here anyway. Figures.

So he continued with his little report, buying time until Elias cracked. He brought up minutiae that he did not really care about since they were not Martin: his assistant’s recoveries from their respective entities (My _assistants,_ Elias thought, because they were _his,_ had always been and always will be his), the Archivist’s eating habits, the fallacies of Windows 10, the Extinction. Most was as Elias expected, with a few added garnishes of office politics (such as casting belligerent employees into the Lonely) and Jon’s impromptu break-in to his office to add some interesting, if predictable, flavor.

Speaking of garnishes. It was as Peter talked that Elias suddenly felt his nose twinge, as if assailed by a speck of pepper. Wonderful. This ought to add insult to injury, now that he was about to make a spectacle in front of Peter. Elias briefly considered choosing the patron of Sarcasm next time he decided to worship an eldritch Entity; this day was certainly proving comical enough. 

Elias would have loved to chalk up the aforementioned sneezing fits to a biological quirk of his latest successor, but they accompanied him from body to body. A…supernatural byproduct of his patronage, one might say. It was bizarre, but so seldom that it was not an issue and Elias could put it out of his mind. Usually. 

Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that one of the few times human beings were physically incapable of keeping their eyes open was when they were sneezing. If he overused his Sight, or went too long abstaining and became susceptible to minor illness, he would be subjected to prolonged fits where he couldn’t open his _own_ eyes, let alone Others. He surmised it was the Eye’s way of warning him not to overextend. Suffering through, as Peter put it, Beholding Withdrawal _and_ overuse of the Eye was not a pretty combination, and one Elias avoided when he could.

However, overseeing Jon’s… _development_ was more than enough to warrant a case of the sniffles.

Elias had discovered this little after-effect shortly following the Watcher’s Crown, when he was still getting a handle on his newfound abilities. Jonah had been of a fairly strong mettle, with not even the Rose Cold in the springtime to give any indication that he suffered like his fellow gentlemen. So it was a shock to discover that, not only did it take an insufferably long time to build to a sneeze, but it was near impossible to stop once he started. It was as if the Eye shorted out, like a software glitch, forced to close and restart to function properly.

Elias bit the inside of his lip. He would have preferred to do this in the privacy of his office back at the Institute, or at the very least in the presence of a nameless temp on the upper levels who could be threatened into silence with a mere look. Not in front of an avatar, and certainly not in front of Peter. He supposed he could hold it in, but the expressions it would take to do so would likely be more absurd than the results themselves. Elias wasn’t embarrassed, per say, but he had somewhat of a reputation. Although a head cold and a little humiliation, he conceded, was the least of what he deserved. In response, his nostrils flared almost imperceptibly. 

Peter noticed the change in Elias' expression immediately, to his dismay. “Ah, there you go,” he said comfortably, forgoing his (frankly banal) chatter.

“So it would seem,” Elias admitted coolly. “Now if you don’t mind, it’s rather impolite to stare.”

Peter grinned. “And miss this Kodak moment?”

“Peter,” Elias warned. 

“I apologize,” Peter said, holding up his hands. “You just look a little irritated there. It’s actually kind of—”

“If you say—”

“—Okay, I won’t say _cute,_ but you know you can actually be quite expressive? When you’re not plotting murder and _tripotage,_ I mean.”

“Delightful,” Elias muttered. Even his chains seemed to be mocking him as the sneeze built, putting water in his eyes and a soft hitch in his breath. He readied his handkerchief and looked to the harsh cell fluorescents, urging what now felt like a mild explosion building in his nasal passages to come to fruition.

“I’m actually curious,” Peter began, jovial, “have you ever tried sneezing with your eyes open? Like, does the Eye even let you?”

“If it did I doubt we would be having this conversation,” Elias grit out. It was precisely _because_ you could not sneeze with your eyes open that the Eye decided this was suitable punishment for exceeding his limits.

Another moment passed. “Are you going to sneeze yet?” Peter asked.

Elias was beyond the point of speaking (and above the point of growling inarticulately), so he merely pressed a knuckle to his septum with an icy look. The burgeoning tickle flared, stinging and tormenting in its slowness.

“Seriously, I could pop in there and give your nose a flick, if it would help things along.”

Elias swore, if he didn't need the Lonely for his own plans he would have murdered Peter Lukas ages ago. With a fishing net.

When he finally, _finally_ sneezed, it was something of a relief. He did it again, and again, and _again_ with no end in sight, as was typical of him once he got going. As if the sneezes decided to compensate in kind for their rareness.

Peter observed this display, blinking. After a moment he cocked his head with concern that was not entirely feigned. “Seven, eight, nine…good _lord,_ Elias.”

And still he was not done. Elias knew better than to try and speak through the fit, so he opted for a squinty glare from behind his handkerchief. It lasted for barely a second before he had to slam his eyes shut again. For the briefest of moments, Elias could forget about the Plan. The Eye. Peter's asinine commentary. The Extinction. All of it. There was only the Itching. Elias let the world fall away until all that was left was sneezing.

“aAtch! H- _tch!_ Hetch! H..hhetch! Etsch! Ets _sch!_ **Et** sh! H-TSCH!”

“Maybe it’s two centuries of dust that’s making you sneeze so much,” Peter surmised over the desperate sound of Elias sneezing over and over, knowing full well that it wasn’t. “I’ve mentioned that the Institute could use a good scrubbing…erm, are you going to…stop anytime soon, or should I be concerned about spontaneous combustion? Did I even need to make a bet with you at all?”

Elias’ nose decided it had had enough after twenty or so, and the sneezes began to die down until they ceased altogether, leaving the former head of the Magnus Institute a disheveled, bleary mess. 

“Impressive,” Peter exclaimed. “You alright there? That certainly was a lot of sneezing. I didn't know it was possible. Like, biologically.”

Elias, recovering, managed to throw Peter a black look, handkerchief covering his face. He still looked a bit sneezy, like a simple breath could set him off again. The expression faded, and he brought a wrist to the underside of his nose, exhaling in relief. With one hand he brushed away the hair that had fallen into his eyes, twitched his nose to the side, and surveyed the handkerchief with a look of thinly veiled disgust. Okay, _now_ maybe he was a trifle embarrassed.

Despite Elias' attempts at composure his mortification had not escaped Peter, who decided to milk the opportunity for all it was worth. “You know, you could audition for the Symphony with those sneezes,” he declared, stroking his beard with a thoughtful look. “I hear they’re hiring for timpani.” 

Elias ignored him. “Has your curiosity been satisfied?” he croaked. It came out brittle and stuffy, which made Elias sound significantly less threatening and more like a disgruntled cartoon character. Peter bit back a grin.

“Oh, absolutely. Now I can’t say this hasn’t been entertaining, watching you sneeze your head off and all, but I should really be getting back,” he said. “I’d say bless you, but I think we both are beyond such things.”

 _Touché,_ Elias thought, sniffling thickly. Aloud, he said, “If you speak of this to anyone I will traumatize you so thoroughly that it will send you to therapy.”

Peter looked nonplussed. “Come now, Elias, who would I tell? Certainly not that—”

 _“Group_ therapy.” That shut Peter up. Elias adjusted his chains and leaned back, folding his wrecked handkerchief in his lap as primly as he could in a vain attempt to salvage any decorum he had remaining. “Now, if you are quite finished,” he told Peter. “I'd appreciate it if you found other things to occupy your time with.” 

Peter shook his head, a faint, wispy smile still gracing his lips. “Fine,” he replied. “But do lay off a bit, yeah? 'Peaky' would be an understatement for the way you look now. Wouldn't want you to die before I win our bet.” 

“Noted,” said Elias, dry, to the now empty room.

_Supplemental_

Back at the Institute, Jonathan Sims paused in the middle of reading a statement (eldritch tapeworms in drunken noodle takeout), frowning. Daisy, who had been lightly dozing, raised her head at the sudden silence. Without warning, Jon pitched forward with a massive, violent sneeze, making Daisy jump in her chair. She couldn’t say she had ever heard Jon sneeze before, what with her being gone, then Buried and all, and then there was the fact that he was not as human as before.

“Gods, Jon! Some warning next time?” she admonished, though a small part of her was relieved that Jon still possessed normal, run-of-the-mill human reflexes. A small comfort to her still-pounding heart, but a welcome one nonetheless.

“Sorry about that,” Jon said. He rubbed a thumb and forefinger over his nose somewhat sheepishly, then began to chuckle.

Daisy frowned. “Care to share?” she asked. 

Jon shook his head, still chuckling softly to himself. “N-no, it’s just—” he huffed a laugh—”just well, erm, there’s no Kleenex in prison. Only shitty one-ply.”

“I—what?”

“Sorry, sorry. Just taking my jollies where I can get them, these days. Small pleasures and all.”

“Okay…I probably don’t want to know, do I?”

Jon only laughed more at this. It was a nice, warm sound, even if Daisy had the inkling it was at someone else’s expense. Hell. If it brought a smile in a place like this, then that was fine by her. 

_End._

**Author's Note:**

> It lives! Hello, beauties. Due to the State of Things I am furloughed and have a lot of time on my hands now. So, I thought I'd get back to ficcing with my (relatively) new obsession. 
> 
> Whiny note: trying to write again after basically a year of nothing was so. effing. difficult. My creative writing muscle is weak and flabby and it took longer than I'm comfortable with to get this chapter even halfway decent. But, it was a good exercise nonetheless! At the moment I am planning three parts, but of course will expand it if I get more ideas that aren't total dumpster fires.


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